Darkness in His Soul
by MapleleafCameo
Summary: Sequel to The NeverEnding Road -read that first please - takes place after Sherlock's back from hunting down Moriarty's web - a dark presence will try and destroy the connections between John and Sherlock - Chapter 6 Mastering Evil Rated M - Slash/Dark themes - Reviews may contain Spoilers
1. 1 Back Amongst the Living

**A/N: This is sequel to The Never-Ending Road. If you have not read that you really should, otherwise you will be confused.**

**There have been so many people who have favoured and followed since The Never-Ending Road – I want to thank you all - if I have forgotten someone, I apologize.**

**TitaniumOctopus, Tabbica, guest (Sevvy – that was a beautiful review – thanks so much!), byebye cutie, Florencia Scordo and IceTopaz. Thanks to anyone else who has read, followed or favoured my other stories – wouldn't be here without you.**

**Warnings - Yeah so apparently I wrote a bunch of smut. Is that a warning? (blush) – I wanted something sweet and nice before all the dark and angst reared up – 'cause it's coming folks!**

**I do not own. I borrowed some words from TRF. I changed some and adapted some to suit my story. I am grateful to the brilliance of Gatiss, Moffat & of course Doyle.**

**All mistakes are my own.**

Darkness in His Soul

Chapter 1. Back Amongst the Living

_When you arise in the morning, think of what a precious priviledge it is to be alive – to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love. Marcus Aurelius_

"_You think you can make me stop the order, you think you can make me do that?"_

"_Yes. So do you."_

"_Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."_

"_Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember?" pause "I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."_

"_Nah. You talk big. Nah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary. You're on the side of the angels."_

"_I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."_

"_No. You're not. I see. You're not ordinary. You're perfect. You're me." A slight giggle. "You're me! Thank you. Sherlock Holmes. Thank you. Bless you. You've made my choice so easy," he whispers. "As long as I'm alive you can save your friends, your dear doctor. You think you've got a way out. I have a way out too, Sherlock. You thought you were prepared to do anything? You have no idea what I'm prepared to do. I won't be shaking hands with you in hell. You'll be there, but," and he paused, "I'll be here. Your friends might not recognize me." He looks down and shakes his head. "I have already thought of the way to prevent you using me to save the one you love and I will still win." Then he opens his mouth wide and places a gun inside. The shot rings out._

Sherlock awoke with a start, his heart racing. As he became more aware of his surroundings he realized it was still dark, still night. He mentally struggled to come back from the rooftop of St. Bart's and return to their bedroom. He rubbed his eyes and frowned trying to wipe away the last vestiges of the nightmare that clung to him. He turned his head slightly, but doing so only confirmed what he already knew. John was awake and up. The place beside him was still warm, so he hadn't been gone long. John was still coming to terms with Sherlock's return and slept more restlessly than before, with dreams darker than even from Afghanistan.

He hadn't done well while Sherlock was gone. Only Lestrade's friendship had helped him through it. Lestrade had had an uncanny knack for turning up at exactly the right moment to prevent John from harming himself.

"It was a close go a couple of times, Sherlock." Lestrade had pulled him aside shortly after his return. "It was weird, the way I just seem to know when it was really bad. Like something or someone was telling me." He shook his head. "I've never seen anyone that lost. But I guess with the whole connection between you two, I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

Sherlock's frown deepened as he thought back to that conversation. He had so much to make up for. It didn't matter that he had done it to save John's life and Lestrade's and Mrs. Hudson's. It didn't matter that he would do it again in a heartbeat. What mattered was that he had damaged the one person he loved more than any other. Had ever loved.

And it wasn't as if they had a normal relationship, either. They had been lovers for over six thousand years due to an unfortunate curse. Not that Sherlock remembered any of it except their first lifetime together. John now only remembered bits and pieces of the rest. Before he'd been cursed to remember every agonizing death, usually caused by his own hand.

Sherlock thought about the conversation he'd had with Athena, when he'd asked her to help John forget, as he lay almost dead in Sherlock's arms.

"_There will of course be a price for this. One you both will have to pay."_

"_There's always a price," he said. She nodded in acceptance._

Over the last tortuous year, he often wondered if his faking his own death and being parted from John was the price. He hoped it wasn't any steeper than that. He felt that John had paid more dearly, as he had paid more dearly with the curse.

Sherlock sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He pulled on his pajama bottoms and walked out of the bedroom. It was warm enough in the flat he didn't need anything else.

He padded out to the kitchen where he found John also in pajama bottoms but wearing a ratty old t-shirt for a top. His hair was still tousled from sleep. He was staring out the window, arms folded across his chest, lost in thought. He did that a lot now. Thinking thoughts Sherlock, even with all of his deductive powers, couldn't always follow. His chest constricted. Even though he'd been back two months and John had started eating more, he still looked so thin. He'd lost a lot of weight while Sherlock was gone destroying Moriarty's web, trying to destroy the legacy of the man who had hurt John so badly, by kidnapping and torturing him twice. He walked up behind the man he loved loud enough not to startle him and placed his hands on John's shoulders. He leaned forward and kissed John on the top of his head, taking in the smell of him, the smell of sunshine and tea and home. John swung his head slightly over his shoulder and looked up at Sherlock and smiled a heartbreakingly warm and sunny smile. His stomach clenched and he knew he had to kiss John.

Sherlock turned the doctor's body toward him. John looked into his eyes, bemused. The blue eyes, which before Sherlock's death had finally cleared of the centuries of heartache, seemed more pain filled, more storm-at-sea than before. Sherlock felt that he didn't deserve to be loved by this man. He ran his hands up the side of John's neck and cupped his face in them. He locked eyes with the doctor, still not saying anything. He leaned down and brushed John's warm lips with his own, then he wrapped his lips around the lower one, sucking gently, listened for the hitch in John's breathing. _There it was. _John let his arms fall from across his chest and wrapped them around Sherlock's waist pulled him closer, running his hands up behind Sherlock to clench onto his shoulders, pressed their bodies together. Sherlock basked in the heat that was generated between the two of them. It had been hard when he had first returned. John had been forgiving after a long explanation, but had been unsure and uncertain making love to Sherlock. He was almost afraid that Sherlock wasn't real or that he'd disintegrate and disappear again. It had only been a few weeks ago that they had become intimate again and it was like starting over, re-learning each other's bodies, each other's erogenous zones.

Sherlock wanted more this time. The nightmare still flickered through his thoughts. He knew that having and taking John would bring him out of dreams and back to reality; John was his anchor. He wrapped his long arms around John and deepened the kiss. He tasted and touched the inside of John's mouth, asked him silently if this was acceptable. John's responded eagerly and he pushed the taller man back against the counter; he seemed to sense Sherlock's need. They breathed into each other and John moaned deeply as Sherlock lowered one of his hands and brought them around front to touch John. He began with feather touches, stroking John's thigh up and down. He reached up and ran a finger at the top of the waistband on John's pajamas and then he slowly and deliberately slipped his hand inside and cupped him. He gently and lightly stroked his partner, teasing him. John trembled.

"Please Sherlock, "he whispered. Sherlock looked into his eyes again. The pupils were blown. John's pulse was racing, as was Sherlock's. He gasped as John reciprocated.

Both were beginning to pant and Sherlock half led, half carried the doctor back to the bedroom. He tugged on John's t-shirt and pulled it up over his head and it landed on the bed. He quickly pulled down his own pajama bottoms and made short work of John's. He pushed the doctor down on the bed and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, reveling in the close contact of bare skin. He had missed this so much. He ran his hands over the doctor's chest as John ran fingers over Sherlock's face and lips. Sherlock took one of John's fingers into his mouth and sucked on it. John moaned, the vibration of it shot right through Sherlock. He leaned forward and continued the kiss he had started in the kitchen. He carried it down from John's mouth and around his chin over to his ear, nibbled and bit. He slowly and lovingly stroked the outer rim with his tongue. John's fingers clenched tighter into Sherlock's shoulders, his breath came in gasps.

Sherlock leaned into the tonguing of John's ear and with a ragged whisper told John exactly what he wanted to do to him. John shuddered and nodded, beyond speech. Sherlock reached over to the bedside table and opened the drawer. He pulled out the small bottle and a condom. He laid them both on the bed beside John and reached down and grasped John and slowly stroked up and down, never taking his eyes off of Johns face, off of his eyes.

"Keep watching me, John. Don't stop."

John swallowed and nodded, never taking his eyes off of his partner. With his other hand Sherlock flipped open the small bottle, letting the liquid roll down his fingers and reached down and began to work on his partner. Slowly moving his finger on the outer rim, slowly, penetrating with one finger, stretching, he added a second finger and there he found it, right there. John's gasp was loud, he shivered and shook. He never lost contact with Sherlock's eyes. They pleaded with Sherlock as he added a third finger. When he was ready, Sherlock, never breaking eye contact with his partner, ripped open the condom package with his teeth. John raised his hands and grabbed it and placed the condom on Sherlock. It was such an intimate moment it was all he could do not to come right there, but he willed himself past it and as he entered into the man he love, he leaned over and whispered continually his love for him. John responded with whispers of his own. He took Sherlock's hands in his own and intertwined their fingers.

At the moment of climax, as the both came together, they both shouted out the other's name, both sounds blending together, as one, as they were one, as they would always be one.

Sherlock reached around and grabbed John's t-shirt and cleaned up John's chest and stomach and then the detective collapsed on top of the doctor. Both were spent. John pulled Sherlock closer and ran one hand through Sherlock's hair and trailed his other hand up and down Sherlock's back.

Afterwards, as they lay in each other's arms, their dreams were more ordinary, more pleasant, less fear filled. Nothing disturbed their sleep for the rest of the night. They slipped into the dreamless sleep of those who have loved and been made love to.

oOo

He awoke to confusion and pain. It wasn't like he'd been told. He had never experienced anything like this, being thrust into another's consciousness, taking over another this way, snuffing out someone's life from the inside. Despite the agony that ripped through the newly acquired mind and body, he felt underneath all of the agony, energy, limitless and growing, expanding. It was a heady feeling. It was more powerful than any of the hundreds of other deaths he had caused in a different reality. It filled him with a new lust for taking lives.

He could get use to this.


	2. 2 Rituals

**A/N: Thanks to the followers, reviewers & favourites! Thanks to Not Quite Beserk & Schmiezi**

**I meant to wish AlessNox a happy birthday today in my other story The Hand You're Dealt, but in the excitement of publishing that chapter I forgot – so I send wishes out in this one!**

**There is an author's note included at the end of this chapter about various sources of information. I included it at the end to prevent spoilers for the story.**

**Thanks jack63kids for some clarification about meals – no can of worms – it's not what the rest of you think!**

**Warnings - rather gruesome murder scene, blood and gore.**

**As usual, I don't own. **

Chapter 2. Rituals

_Religion is more than rite and ritual. Yann Martel, Life of Pi_

Two Days After

John came home from the surgery a little earlier than usual. It had been a slow day and Sarah had taken pity on him and let him go home. He was extremely grateful to Sarah. She had taken him back to work at the surgery a few months after Sherlock had 'died', working behind John's back with Greg to keep him busy. She'd actually needed him as two of her regular doctors had left at the same time, one to retirement and one to Glasgow. He had been full time for a while. Sarah had let him drop some of his shifts when the detective had returned. She knew they had needed time to be together and John had been pretty useless the first couple of weeks after the detective's dramatic return, mostly due to shock.

As he came to the top of the stairs to the flat, he stopped and listened for a moment. An unusual sound was coming from the direction of the kitchen. A small grin played upon the doctor's lips as he identified the noise.

Sherlock was humming.

Sherlock didn't hum.

Well, at least not outside the bedroom. The humming usually happened when they were…occupied. There may have been a few times it happened when they had been on the couch as well, now that he thought about it.

John walked into the kitchen and watched Sherlock. He was busy looking at some unknown substance through his microscope.

Sherlock seemed totally oblivious to the fact that John was there. He appeared to be deeply wrapped up in whatever it was he was doing.

John cleared his throat.

"Yes, I am aware you are there. I'm in the middle of documenting various molds, comparing them to the mold spores currently growing in 221C."

"Yes and a good afternoon to you, too. How about you lead with 'So happy to see you. Have a nice day at work? Care for a pre-dinner shag?'"

Sherlock glanced up at John, one eyebrow raised. A slight smirked played about his lips. "Knowing you, I would have thought you would prefer an after dinner shag since you'll have more energy from consuming calor…"

His mouth was stopped with a kiss. John had crossed the space between them, while Sherlock had been talking. As he broke off, John said, "How about you keep quiet & I'll make a quick bite and then we'll talk. You can keep working and humming while I putter around. Leftovers okay?"

Sherlock looked at John puzzled. "Humming? I do not hum."

John broke out into a grin "Sure you do. In fact you were, just now, as I was coming up the stairs. Couldn't figure out what that noise was at first. Sounded rather…sea chanteyish. It was kind of melancholy and pretty, vaguely Celtic. You have a nice hum."

Sherlock looked completely nonplussed. He harrumphed a bit and returned to looking through his microscope, while John got something out to eat. John could tell he was distracted and not likely to get anything more accomplished.

"You know a lot of people hum. It's nothing to be ashamed of," John was grinning.

On one hand Sherlock was happy to see John relaxed and happy and if humming made him feel that way, well who was he to put off humming.

On the other hand…

Sherlock knew he never hummed.

And if he did hum, he certainly wouldn't hum a sea chantey.

But he didn't hum.

And he certainly didn't remember humming.

It was one of several things that had been odd the last two days.

That thought was pushed to the back of his head as John served up some leftovers from Angelo's. After John himself, it was the thing Sherlock had missed the most; John's routines and rituals for keeping him fed. It wasn't just John who had lost weight over the past year. With no one to look after him, Sherlock had fallen back into bad habits when it came to eating.

"Come away from the mold and eat. I'd rather not contaminate perfectly good pasta with some weird mutant mold."

Sherlock sighed and followed John.

The mold would have to wait.

oOo

They were just finishing up when Sherlock's mobile chimed with a text.

He glanced at the display.

"Lestrade." He said.

John sighed.

_Young woman found dead-looks like ritual sacrifice-altar & everything. Interested? GL _

He'd included the address with the text. It wasn't far from Baker Street.

_We'll be right over SH_

"Come John," Sherlock's eyes glimmered. "Human sacrifice. Sounds highly implausible, therefore possibly intriguing."

John saw how excited Sherlock was. He was just getting back into being allowed access to cases and he was clearly ready for something more challenging than molds.

He smiled at his partner, "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

oOo

Sherlock bent over the body of the young woman. It _was_ most intriguing.

_Young woman, age 18? No 17. Dressed in what was once a white cotton gown. How dull and predictable. Hair braided with multi-coloured ribbons, as well as tied around arms, wrists and ankles. Laid out on a slab of marble, possibly stolen from construction sight, get Lestrade to check into it. Throat cut, directionality indicates right-handed individual, probably male, wait, judging by the strength of the cut definitely male. Done without anger, slowly and meticulously. Where's the blood? Not enough blood at the throat. Death occurred here. Body wasn't moved. Blood must have been collected. The front of her hair is wet, the substance appearing to be water, flow pattern of water and trace amounts of blood on neck indicate victim was standing upright when both water was poured and throat was cut. Small particles of unknown substance scattered around and on top of her, grain of some kind, looks like barley. Deep cut from just below sternum to just above pelvic region, entrails removed and displayed. There appears to be some sort of mark branded on her hand, like crescent._

"John, can you come here and confirm something? It looks like her liver is missing." He glanced around to see John standing there with a mixture of expressions crossing his face, disgust, horror, anger, surprisingly fear was there and something that looked like recognition.

"John?"

John cleared his throat. He looked at Sherlock. There was a brief but silent communication between them. Yes, John definitely recognized something about this murder. Interesting.

Sherlock stood and walked over to where John stood.

"What is it? What do you know?"

John looked at Sherlock. There was more than just fear and horror and recognition there. He also saw panic. This was not good. John did not usually panic at a murder scene.

"It would be a good idea to call Greg over here as well. I really only want to say this once," said John.

Sherlock turned to find Lestrade had been silently watching them. He came over as Sherlock jerked his head in their direction.

"What have you got?" asked Greg as he walked over.

"John recognizes something about this murder. Isn't that correct John?"

The doctor's lips tightened briefly.

"Not me. _I_ don't recognize it. But I know someone who does."

Sherlock looked at John in surprise. He had definitely seen a look of familiarity in the doctor's eyes and face. "Then who?"

John looked paler of that was possible.

"Eleri recognizes it." Eleri was the name of the first life John had lived. She had been a priestess in the temple of Hecate. "This girl was murdered in a ritual sacrifice from the days of the Greeks. In fact I or rather Eleri performed a similar sacrifice back in the day. But not with humans, never with humans. Just bulls and sheep and the like," John looked like he might be sick. "This is so wrong I can't even begin to explain it. Eleri's mad." He glanced at the two men standing looking at him.

"Look, I know it's crazy and you know it's crazy, but I haven't felt her this close since before… before Sherlock…you know… and the feelings I'm getting from her are horror that someone would do this to a human and anger, like… like someone's perverted a holy ritual. I don't know how else to explain it. She's practically shouting in my head."

Lestrade broke the silence. "Look we've both been there. We were there the night you were speaking in tongues, mate, but it's just…" He waved his hand vaguely in the air. He really didn't know how to finish the thought.

Sherlock didn't hesitate. "You don't talk about it like she's present, in your head, about her feelings. You certainly have never talked about Eleri except as memories."

"Yeah, well this woke her up and she's pissed off." With that John turned and walked closer to the body of the young girl and began his own examination.

Sherlock and Greg looked at each other, both wearing identical expressions of concern.

oOo

"So what can you tell us about the sacrifice of an animal in ancient Greek times? And what makes you so sure that that is what this is?" Greg asked John. They were sitting in Greg's office back at NSY.

John rubbed his face and sat back and thought, his gaze looking inward. When he looked up again, Greg felt he was seeing that ancient soul that had so unnerved him when he had suspected John's real identity as the bearer of a curse.

"This is the kind of thing you can look up in the Internet you know," John was stalling.

"Yes, but why would I when I have an expert sitting right in front of me. Come on John. You know stuff no one else alive today would ever know. Give it over."

Sherlock sat without saying a word. He was just as interested as Lestrade to hear John's explanation.

John nodded slowly and launched into a description.

"You pick an animal that's the best out of a herd or flock. You never stint the gods. It would be insulting. Then you wash it, adorn it in ribbons," he paused.

"Like the girl," Greg said softly.

"Yes," said John. "It's part of the ritual. You want it to be like…" he searched for the right word. "like an honour I guess. Like a posh party with your family or whatever attending and the sacrifice is the most important thing there. It's not just religion. It's a get together. The gods are there as well, unseen, but present. It's a gathering. Do you understand?" Both men nodded.

"But why the water and barley?" asked Sherlock.

His eyes were gleaming again. John knew he was excited. New data. Meanwhile John was nauseated at the whole idea. He tried his best clinical frame of mind, tried putting the dead girl out of his head. He wasn't very successful.

"You pour water on the top of the animal's head to jerk it up and down. When it clears the water off of its face, makes it look as if it were nodding. See it has to be agreeable to the sacrifice. It has to be part of it's own killing. The barley seeds or whatever grain you might have handy, but usually barley, are thrown on, by people watching, so that they have some involvement in the sacrifice. Then the throat is slit and the person performing the killing removes the entrails to read them, to see if the sacrifice pleases the gods. They do it to communicate with the gods. They lay the animal on the altar and oil is poured on and it's cooked and you eat it. That would be like a shared meal. The gods smell the offering and it's like they, well I guess they eat it with you."

Sherlock asked. "Were did the blood go? There wasn't enough blood. They must have gathered it. "

"Well yes, like in a cup or something. You don't want blood in the animal when you cook it. It is usually thrown out, but for some occasions you use it, sometimes as part of asking the gods for favours or other things."

Lestrade, who's face was displaying a horrified interest, said, "Do you think they were going to eat her? Did they get interrupted or something? And why was the liver missing?"

John shrugged, feeling more and more ill, "The liver is used in divining, in working out the gods will. And as I said humans were never sacrificed. The gods frowned on it. They were okay with killing in war or instead of taking prisoners or as punishment, but not on the altar. So yeah, not eaten."

"What about the knife? Anything special? Type of blade?" Sherlock leaned forward. John was slightly disturbed to see the gleam in Sherlock's eye was getting more intense. He was not obviously bothered by the death of the girl the way John and Greg were. A shiver ran down John's back. He thought Sherlock had change a bit being away for a year, but he still seemed as interested in death and it's mechanisms as ever.

"Ummm, well it was a bronze blade, of course, with a curve, and a wooden handle, but other than that, no not really," he thought for a moment.

Greg's turn, "And the brand? On her hand? Looked like a crescent or something."

John looked grim. "The crescent was a symbol of two different goddesses. One was Artemis. This doesn't seem her style."

"And the other?"

"Hecate. She was goddess of the moon and the night." The three men were quiet for a moment, thinking about Hecate's involvement with the curse put upon John and Sherlock.

"I thought that was Artemis? Goddess of the moon," said Sherlock.

"That you remember? More important than the Solar System?"

"I studied Greek religion trying to figure out how to break that curse."

"You didn't delete it?" asked John, surprised.

"Of course not John. It had to do with you,"

John was oddly flattered. He grinned at Sherlock, feeling more normal for the first time that evening since the crime scene.

"Artemis' connection to the moon came later. During my, er, Eleri's time, it was Hecate. As well as witchcraft and crossroads. It changed from region to region. It was complicated and there was overlap. As to your original question, I'm not sure why she was branded. That didn't happen in the temple back in the day."

Lestrade turned to Sherlock, "So give me."

"Really Lestrade a lot of this you could figure out without me."

"I know that you git. I want your ideas."

Sherlock looked pleased and rattled off what he thought about the addition of John's information.

"She was killed in a ritual going back centuries. It is possible from what John has said that she was a willing participant in her own sacrifice. She probably knew her murderer. There were no signs of struggle at the scene. I would construe that she may come from an upper class family, the idea if being 'the best' in our society. There was more than one participant involved if what John says about the placement of the barley. The ritual appears to be connected to Hecate. Which given the nature of her worship is more likely than Artemis. As we have had dealings with Hecate in the past (he ignored John's muttered "distant past") I am thinking that that is more likely. It is odd that something like this would turn up now," he turned to John "Don't you agree?"

"Bit more than coincidence, yeah."

There was silence for a moment.

John cleared his throat, "Well if that's all. I need to get home. I have to work tomorrow. What about you?" he asked Sherlock. "You going to Bart's to look at the body?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment as he realized something had changed in their relationship of solving crimes together. John wasn't going to go with him. He nodded. John missed the slightly hurt look in Sherlock's eyes.

Lestrade stood to see them out. "Call me if either of you think of anything,"

he said.

The two men left. They crossed the floor to the direction of the stairs. Many eyes followed them, some in interest and curiosity. Some with lingering hostility over the fact that Sherlock had returned from the dead and was reinstated as a hero, there to show them up once more.

Interestingly one pair of eyes followed them with a hidden gleam of madness and glee.

_Nice to see you back together again, boys. It's like one big happy reunion!_

**A/N: Information about animal sacrifices in ancient Greece was found on a website, ironically about atheism. That information was taken and adapted. Bless the Internet for finding out stuff you didn't know you'd need to use some day. Information about gods and goddesses I have read in several different books, with various opinions on their roles. There is some mention of human sacrifice in some texts, but most agree it wasn't likely to have happened often. I also changed some things to suit the story, but I tried to be as accurate as possible. Any mistakes are my own.**


	3. 3 Distractions

**A/N: Actually note to self – Do not try to publish two stories at the same time again – working on them is acceptable – publishing is not – too confusing (for me) & one suffers (story that is) – Now that the other story is finished I can be a better mistress to this one!**

**Warnings –murder, mayhem, swearing, conversations around possible attempts at suicide - angst - the usual.**

**Don't own – if I did I'm not sure they'd show it on the telly!**

Chapter 3. Distractions

"_Hutchison's Law: Any occurrence requiring undivided attention will be accompanied by a compelling distraction." Robert Bloch_

2 Days Later

Early Evening

He was so very happy. Things were working out the way he had planned. The way that stupid woman from the shop had planned. It was a shame he needed her to fulfill the final part. She had to be there for the sacrifices. She was the priestess. It wouldn't work without her.

Oh well. _C'est la vie. _Two more murders and the doors would open and then for the Grand Finale. He would sacrifice four more on the altar and She would be here. She would be able to step through and walk upon the Earth, just like in the old days. It would be a win/win situation for the both of them.

Thank god for Virgil. The description of bringing Hecate into the world was right there. In Aeneid 6.257. Plain as day. If you knew what it _really_ meant. Of course he wouldn't be using stupid bullocks. _I mean really! How the hell was someone supposed to find bullocks in London for heaven's sake? No. Nothing but the best for the Goddess._

1 detective inspector (the Goddess insisted on that one)

1 pretty little maid (Shame about her. He'd rather liked her the first time he been here)

1 consulting detective

1 doctor

Yesssss! It would be just about perfect. It was always nice to tie up loose ends. And payback. Well, you know what they said about payback? She's a bitch, baby

Already the dogs were baying. The Yard had been inundated with complaints about dogs barking and howling, even if it wasn't their job. People liked to complain to the police. The dogs were the first sign. He clapped his hands together. So much more fun to be had when the snakes show up. And then the stones will cry out and the earth will tremble. There will be a whole lot more trembling than just the earth later on.

Some stupid Yarder walked past his desk.

"Going to the pub tonight?"

He smiled a charming smile. What a wonderful disguise. He got to help out in the investigation! They were calling everybody in on it. Hoping to solve it before the papers riled everyone up.

"No," he said, letting disappointment creep into his voice, make them think he cared, that he was one of the boys. "I have plans." _Big plans. A whole lot of them. So many fingers in so many pies._

oOo

Later That Night

Sherlock couldn't sleep

Another body had been discovered. This time a young man. Same positions, similar clothing, same sacrifice. The only difference was location. As with the last murder it took place near Baker Street, within walking distance, but the first one had been to the east and this was to the south. He did not think this was a coincidence that they were so close to their flat. There _are_ no coincidences.

He ran his hand down John's back, stroking it. The doctor was sleeping with his head resting on Sherlock's chest. He hadn't had a lot of sleep the last few nights either. The night of the first murder he had come home late from NSY while Sherlock had gone to the morgue with the first body. But John didn't sleep well when Sherlock was away. He didn't have to be in bed with him, just in the flat. If he was out of the flat it was too much like Sherlock's vanishing act. Then last night, when he finally reached a deep sleep, the first murder finally triggered what Sherlock had been expecting. A trip to Ancient Greece. Interestingly it wasn't his old dream about Eleri & Acrisias. It was a different one. One about temple rituals and sacrifices. It took John a while to snap out of it. When he did, he told Sherlock it was part remembrances from the past and part dream. Instead of a bull, pig or sheep on the altar it had been Sherlock he'd been standing over. During that part of the dream he'd been John, not Eleri.

After sidetracking him in one of the best ways known to humans, the doctor had finally fallen back into sleep. It had only been for a few hours, before once again he'd had to get up for work. He'd been there today whilst Sherlock was at the latest murder scene.

When John had come home from work, they had discussed the details of the case; John had been listening, more than contributing throughout most of it. Of course that was often the way things worked between them. This time Sherlock sensed it had more to do with how John felt about the case rather than his usual rapt attention to the detective's rapid-fire deductions.

After, John had fallen asleep in his chair. Sherlock hadn't wanted to wake him, but he knew John would be stiff and sore if he left him there. So he did wake him and bundled him into bed and joined him, hoping the doctor would get a decent night's sleep.

But that wasn't why Sherlock wasn't sleeping. Nor was the cause the usual aspects of working a case.

No. He had two other reasons for not sleeping.

One was he strongly felt he was missing something. There was something he had been trying to remember, but he couldn't, something to do with the case and with them. Whenever he went back into his memory, his mind palace, to go over any and all facts relating to this case and John's merry trip through hell with Moriarty and Hecate, the second reason why he couldn't sleep haunted his thoughts.

It was a song.

A song he couldn't shake.

A song he didn't recognize.

He thought it might be the same song John said he'd been humming.

What he really wanted to do was get up and play it on his violin, but he did not want to wake up John. So he lay there trying unsuccessfully to think of anything else.

The song was getting louder and words were beginning to creep in.

He could almost hear the words right there.

_Sir you're a stranger not long to this land_

Over again and again.

If only he could think of the next line in the song.

Sherlock sighed. It was most disconcerting.

He very carefully rolled John off of him, covered him with the duvet, ran his fingers lightly through John's hair and slipped into his robe. He quietly went into the living room. He took his violin out of the case and crept up the stairs to John's old room, now a haven for storage and Sherlock's extra science equipment. He opened the window and went up the fire escape to the roof. Once there he tucked his violin under his chin and began to play as softly as he could, hoping to get the song out of his head.

After a half an hour he was startled by a noise from behind. He turned and saw John standing there.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asked the shorter man.

"No," John's face was hard to discern in the dark. Although there were lights from the city illuminating parts of the roof, it also played with the shadows. John was mostly in shadow, "I woke up and you were gone. I worried." He walked closer to Sherlock "When you disappear like that it makes me wonder."

"Wonder what John?"

John paused and looked down at his bare feet. He was silent for a few minutes. "Wonder if you are really back. That I'm not imagining it. Like I use to, sometimes."

Sherlock looked at the man he loved.

He swallowed. Feeling it again. All the pain he'd caused.

"I'm sorry. I didn't think. I wanted to, I _needed_ to play, but I didn't want to wake you."

"I know. It's my problem, not yours," John said quietly.

Sherlock walked up to John and holding on to the bow and violin in one hand, he carefully wrapped the other arm around the doctor, holding him as gently as he would his violin. "No, John. It is both of ours."

John lowered his head against the other man's chest listening to his heart, seeking affirmation that Sherlock was real.

"I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For doubting. Not believing."

Sherlock held him tighter.

"Why should you? I lied to you. I made you think I was dead."

John's breathing sped up. They really hadn't talked out all of their problems, all of their hurts.

"It's hard because in the past…from before…whenever you died, I died. I thought you had died and I wondered why I couldn't, why I didn't."

Sherlock leaned his chin on top of John's head.

"John…"

John cleared his throat. "Let me talk. Sometimes I feel as if I can't tell you, but now I can, for the moment. So let me try to explain."

They stood in the dark, quiet for a moment.

"Greg probably told you, in fact I know he did, there were a couple of times when…when I was going to follow you. He stopped me. There were a few times when he came over to keep me company, just to talk. He needed to be there to make up for the other times, the times when I was alone and I'd make two cups of tea and I go so far as to bring it to the living room, only to realize you weren't there. "

Sherlock closed his eyes, squeezed them tight.

"But, sometimes, especially late at night or early in the morning, I thought I could hear you, feel you in here," he put his hand on his chest, "far away. I'd think I was imagining things again, but now I know I _was _hearing you, feeling you. You and I have this connection. I know where you are all the time. I just have trouble believing it sometimes. Please be patient with me."

The detective lifted his head off of John's and looked down at him. The doctor raised his head and looked up at him. Sherlock pulled John closer and lowered his head and kissed him, softly on the lips and then brushed his lips across John's forehead.

"Of course," was all he said.

After a few minutes, after a lifetime they both went back down the stairs, back in the flat, back to their room, back to each other.

If nothing else came about during the night at least Sherlock forgot about the song for a while.

oOo

Next Morning

Sherlock was up and dressed when John made his way into the kitchen. He filled the kettle still half asleep. Sherlock was sitting in his chair, but not in his usual thinking pose. He had his head in his hands as if he had a headache. He looked as tired as John felt.

"Why didn't you wake me?" John asked.

Sherlock snapped his head and his gaze towards John. "I knew you weren't working today and thought you could use more sleep." He let his head fall back into his hands.

John snorted, "You're one to talk." And then he woke up enough to take in Sherlock's pose. "Are you all right?"

"No!"

John just raised an eyebrow. Sherlock, since his return, usually refrained from shouting at John. It didn't prevent him from yelling at others.

The detective sighed. "I'm sorry. I just can't get this damned song out of my head."

"Earworm?"

"What?"

It's called an earworm. When you have a song playing over and over and you can't get rid of it."

Sherlock frowned, "That's ridiculous. I have never had that problem."

"Well apparently you do now."

The sound of the kettle let them know the steam was rising and the water was boiling. John made his way into the kitchen and made two cups of tea. He threw a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. He pulled a light breakfast together for the two of them and brought it back out to the living room. He set the cup and a plate of toast beside Sherlock's chair. The detective hadn't moved the entire time John had been gone.

He knelt down beside the chair.

"What can I do? You are more than upset about this."

Sherlock looked up again and took in the worried expression on John's face. "John, I…," he hesitated. "I need your help."

John frowned and pulled at his lower lip.

"Of course. Why would you even have to ask?"

Sherlock sighed, "Because I'm having trouble accessing information." He grimaced. Even with his partner, the one person he could share everything with, he had trouble talking about personal failings.

John looked surprised. "Okay," he said slowly.

Sherlock looked even more uncomfortable.

"Every time I try to make connections in this case that damn song gets louder. It's almost as if it's trying to stop me." He sat back abruptly and said, "There's something I need to tell you, as well. From…before…before I jumped. I think it's connected as well."

John just looked at him. The Captain Watson stare. _Seriously? He was still holding back information?_

Sherlock recognized _the look_ and shook his head. "I was under advisement not to tell you at the time. And then when things got out of hand with Moriarty, it rather slipped my mind."

"Under advisement? Under advisement from who? If it turns out to be your brother, then he and I are going to have words again. I still haven't forgiven him for not telling me you were alive!" It came out rather growly.

Sherlock smirked a bit. Even if he ended up on the receiving end of a full out tirade from John it would be worth it if Mycroft got the same treatment.

The he sobered again.

"Not Mycroft. Athena."

John's eyebrows went higher.

"Would you care to explain?"

The detective looked at the doctor. "What do you remember about the time you were held captive by Moriarty?"

_Nothing like being blunt,_ thought John. He shifted uncomfortably.

"You should know. I told you what I remembered at the time. I remember some. Not a lot. I try not to think about it much. Once I got the telling out of my system with that therapist. Well, and you. Why?"

"Do you remember getting shot?"

John's eyebrows really couldn't get any higher.

"Ummm, no that's a bit hazy. I think, what I jumped in front of the bullet?" he frowned. "Really I should have been dead, right? The bullet should have gone right through me. Angle of the thing and all."

"You were dead," Sherlock said softly, remembering that moment far too clearly.

"What? No. It just grazed my side. Have the scar to prove it. Why are you shaking your head?"

"I neglected to tell you everything that happened with Athena after you were shot. I told you how she intervened and saved you. She broke the curse. No more tragic death and when we do finally die, no more remembering past lives. What I didn't tell you was that you were shot in the chest. It wasn't a graze. You died in my arms. There was something else as well. Something I asked for."

"Hold on, give me a moment here. You're saying I died? But…but the bullet wound wasn't even close to being fatal!" John sat back stunned. "That's a lot to take in. And why the hell didn't you ever tell me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "It wasn't convenient at the time."

John just looked at Sherlock. He felt he was getting angrier by the second, but instead of getting loud and yelling, he became cold and distant. Sherlock had only seen him this angry a few times.

"What do you mean it wasn't convenient?" he said in a deadly voice.

Sherlock frowned at John again. "I didn't tell you because you seemed to be having enough to be going on with at the time. I was waiting to tell you and then events unfolded and I didn't get the chance. I'm telling you now. After I rescued you and we left the warehouse, we came across Moriarty and Sebastian Moran. We didn't know that it was Moran at the time. Moran aimed a rifle at me, you shoved me out of the way and he fired. You were hit in the chest."

Sherlock stopped talking. Even though he knew the outcome, even though John was sitting here in front of him, royally pissed to be sure, he couldn't get past the fact that John had _died_. And he had lost him just after finding him. John must have seen something of that in Sherlock's face, because he turned down the glower slightly. He leaned forward and took Sherlock's hand. He gave it a squeeze.

"I'm still angry with you. You really haven't learned to stop keeping things from me have you? You know it doesn't work that way. You damage both of us when you do that. But I'm here right now and I'm alive and you're alive so tell me the fucking story."

Sherlock just stared at his doctor, his John. He really didn't deserve him.

"After you were shot and after you…died…the paramedics came. One of the paramedics was Athena. She told me I had to do something, but I didn't know what. She made me remember what I had done, what Acrisias had done. She showed me and I saw it all. I had to forgive you just as you had forgiven me. And after she brought you back. She told me because she was Goddess of Just Warfare she could change how you got shot. She also said she wasn't sure about the after effects of the poison Moriarty had given you, but there never appeared to be any side effects from that. She told me something else after and I can't remember. John, I didn't delete it. I just can't remember and that doesn't happen to me." He suddenly stood up and began pacing the flat. "I use to know it. I would have been able to remember a few days ago, but ever since the first murder I haven't been able to access information regarding any of it. Information I know is important to the case. It's driving me mad!"

He stopped suddenly and ran his hands through his hair as if trying to scrub the information out.

John stood up and grabbed his hands. "Shhh, it's okay. How can I help you?" John could see his eyes were filled with confusion and pain and fear. He let go of his anger for the moment in light of the issues Sherlock was having. Not that he'd forget about it. He just put it aside for the moment.

"I don't know."

"Maybe if we use one of those apps to figure out the song, maybe that will help you. Maybe if we know the name of the song you can get rid of it."

Sherlock nodded.

John pulled out his mobile and found the app he was looking for. "Okay, I don't know, play it maybe? On your violin? Maybe it will recognize it."

Sherlock walked over to his violin, picked up and slowly started playing the song. After about 30 seconds the app chimed.

John looked at the information displayed on the screen. "Okay it's called _Barque in the Harbour_. It's apparently from Newfoundland. Does that mean anything to you?"

Sherlock shook his head. He was beginning to feel uneasy.

John began to play the song on his mobile.

As soon as the first words poured out from the tiny device in John's hand a change came over Sherlock.

John looked up at his partner and confusion flowed over him. Sherlock's face had changed. Sherlock had changed. Gone were the confusion, fear and pain. In its place was someone cool and aloof. His entire demeanor and stance were completely different. He stood with his hands in his pockets and a grin lit his face. A wild manic grin.

He looked John up and down. "Hello, Johnny boy. Long time no see."

**A/N: Hopefully you have read The NeverEnding Road and you will recognize the significance of the song as referenced in Chapter 4 of that story. The description of calling Hecate to earth is from Virgil's Aeneid. More information about what the hell is going on will be forthcoming in later chapters. Confused? Excellent (Evil maniacal laughter & much rubbing of hands).**


	4. 4 The End of the World

**A/N: Thanks to Mzzmarie for the review & follow.**

**Warnings – swearing (I should just give up that warning – assume it's a given!) and some scary psycho, creepy bits and fun stuff like that**

Chapter 4. The End of the World

_Chapter Title inspired by End of the World_ by _R.E.M._ from the album _Document_

Same Day Same Time

John just stared at Sherlock.

_What the fuck_? was the first coherent thought in his head. He looked down at his mobile and turned of the music.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" he asked a little leery.

Sherlock just continued grinning that wild, familiar grin that was definitely not the same as Sherlock's wild, familiar grin. "Oh dear, sweet Johnny, Sherlock's having a little nap right now. He's sleeping and you are alone with me. Just you and me." He leaned closer to John. John instinctively backed up.

Sherlock's grin got wider. The more John stared at him the less like Sherlock he looked. There was something…wrong.

"I think you need to sit down and get a hold of yourself. You are scaring me just a little."

"Just a little? Oh that's a shame. I'm hoping to scare you a whole _lot_." John backed up a little more. Sherlock took another step forward. Before he knew it, John had backed up all the way to the closed door. Sherlock raised a hand and placed it on John's chest.

He leaned his face towards John. John's eyes widened.

Sherlock chuckled, low. Normally his voice, that deep, would register through John's body in the most amazing way, but this was repulsive and his skin crawled, "Don't you remember me, John? Don't you remember how much fun we had? I'm soooo disappointed. Sherlock knows. I can read his thoughts. He hates me so much for what I did to you. Did you know?" He raised a hand and stroked John's cheek. He tried not to flinch. "He would have killed me with his bare hands if he could have. Imagine what it would do to him knowing I used him to hurt you," the eyes were glittering, but not with Sherlock's spark of intelligence and the warmth that was always there, reserved just for John. They were cold and alien and as they looked deep into John's, John knew that this was not Sherlock. Someone or something was sharing space with the detective. John was very much afraid he knew who it was.

"Who are you?" Anger radiated off of John. "Where is Sherlock?"

A smirked played on the detective's face; it wasn't Sherlock's smirk. He whispered in John's ear.

"You know who I am. I saw the look of recognition in your face just now. Is it just that you want me to tell you or are you really that stupid? Playing hard to get is such a turn on." He breathed deeply, inhaling John's sent, sniffing up his neck and into his hair. "Mmmm, you may be stupid, but you sure smell good. It is interesting sharing space with your lover. He has lots of memories of all the inventive and kinky stuff you two have been up to." He leaned back and looked at John again. "I really don't have the time today to explore and play. Shame. This was just put into place to deliver a message."

John's heart was beating rapidly. He would not let Moriarty see how scared he was, not for himself, but for Sherlock. He raised his hand and shoved Sherlock's body out of his space.

"Let go of him right now. Get out and go back to hell!"

"Oooo, someone's feisty today. Don't worry, pet, I'm not staying. Can't stay long. Too much goodness and light," he shuddered. "You have been a horrible influence on him, my dear. As I said this is just to deliver a message. I'm not really all here. Just some of the best bits. Tell him I am more than a little put out that he didn't jump. Disappointed to say the least," he pulled his head back a bit. "You know he didn't do you any favours, leaving you, leaving you all alone. You thought I was cruel! I would have taken much better care of you." He leaned forward again. "So much better." John just glared at him. "No? Oh well. Tell him he's running out of time. Two more deaths to open the door. He can't stop me. I have the power of the gods behind me. Or at least one in particular."

John's rage was growing. He clenched his fists. "Why are you doing this? Why are you tipping your hand and telling me this?"

Sherlock's body shrugged. His face pulled into a grimace. "Why not? It's a whole lot more fun with an audience. More fun with someone to work against. All part of the game, John. Everything is set in motion. Pretty soon it will be all over and you and Sherlock and some of your little friends will be dead. But then I do owe him for killing Seb. But don't be sad. It will be for a good cause. Your deaths will herald a new age. You should be proud, Johnny."

"What door Moriarty? What door are you opening?"

"Wouldn't you like to know? I'm not going to tell you everything. What would be the fun in that?"

He stepped back toward John. "I do want you to think about something John, something just for you. I want you to think about how I can walk into Sherlock's head at anytime, at anyplace. I want you to think about how you might be kissing Sherlock," and he leaned against the wall, placing a hand on either side of John's head, "or having sex," the word same out with a sibilant sound, "and I pop in. Wouldn't that simply be the most wonderful thing you have ever imagined? Oh look! How sweet. You are shaking and shivering just thinking about it." And he raised his hand and grabbed John's jaw and bent to force a kiss.

John was shaking, but it wasn't fear and as much as he wanted to close his eyes, he refused. So he let his body and instinct do the thinking for him. He raised his arm and punched Sherlock's face and then shoved the taller man's body backwards, hard. Sherlock fell to the floor and there was a whooshing sound as the air left him.

John stood over the detective's body. He watched warily as Sherlock opened his eyes with a groan and blinked up at John.

"John, why am I on the floor?"

John breathed a sigh of relief and allowed his eyes to close for a moment and then he offered his hand to Sherlock.

Sherlock took it, looking at John with a puzzled expression on his face as he climbed to his feet. "What happened? Your heart rate is elevated, you're sweating and pale and there are bruises on your knuckles. Did we have a fight?"

John grabbed Sherlock and pulled him into a hug with a choked off sob.

"John?" Sherlock was worried. He seemed to have blacked out and it appeared, from the way his jaw felt that his partner had punched him. He raised his arms, one to wrap around John's body and the other to stroke the bright blonde head. He could feel John trembling as he tried to get control over himself.

_What happened?_

John's shuddering stopped and he stepped back. He looked up at Sherlock and the detective could tell he was trying to pull himself together. He forced Sherlock to sit down.

"What do you remember?"

Sherlock blinked. "I remember talking about the song…"

"Don't mention the damn song!"

"And you playing it…"

"Not going to do that again any time soon!"

"And that's it."

John could feel his heart rate start to slow to normal. He took a deep breath and spoke in what he hoped was more or less calm voice,

"This one might be hard to believe," he said with a ghost of a smile, as if trying to reassure Sherlock that everything was okay, even if he wasn't feeling that way himself.

John took another deep breath. "Moriarty was just here.

Sherlock looked at John sideways. "Yes John, that _is_ hard to believe."

John shook his head, "Not in the conventional sense."

"Perhaps you had better explain."

So John did. It was a measure of the regard that Sherlock held for the older man that he didn't laugh and sneer at him. It was also partly due to all they had been through. Sherlock at first had trouble accepting the story of John's curse until evidence in the form of a man speaking half a dozen languages he shouldn't know and the presence of a Goddess saving the man he loved, had effectively changed his mind. He held those thoughts in his head as he listened to John explain how Sherlock had changed with the playing of the song. He told Sherlock everything Moriarty had said and done. Sherlock felt a simmering rage flow through his veins and not because he'd been used by the supposedly dead consulting criminal. When John told him about 'popping' into Sherlock's head at anytime, including when they were making love he stood up and began to pace the apartment.

"He informed you he was only partly here as a warning. The song must have triggered something, but why and how? The indication would be that he is 'residing' somewhere else, presumably in someone. He indicated he was behind the ritual murders. He told you there would be two more deaths and then another four. He basically said some of our friends and the two of us would be included in that number. That the first four deaths would 'open the door' and the last four would what? He wouldn't say what the door was to or for. Have I missed anything?" He paused. He stopped and looked at John, "He also took great delight in tormenting you."

John flinched and Sherlock stepped closer to John. It took a great deal of will power for John not to retreat once again. It was because he knew it was Sherlock that he was able to stay still. Sherlock immediately knew what John was thinking and feeling.

_Of course he does,_ thought John.

"John, I will not let him hurt you again."

"Yeah? Well that might be difficult if you have him roaming around in your head." John sat on the couch and looked up and into the eyes that once again belonged to Sherlock. The beautiful changeable almond shaped green blue gray eyes. The eyes he didn't want to see change again. Ever.

"John. I don't think he can do it again. I think the song was a trigger, and it seems to be out of my head. I can't hear it anymore. I don't think he can catch me unaware again. I think he was saying that to, what is the phrase? 'Mess with your head'."

John snorted. It was always interesting when Sherlock used slang and colloquialisms. Sherlock knelt on the floor in front of John and took his hands in his own.

"John. I won't let him hurt you. You are _mine_. He can't have you!" And he laid his head in John's lap. John reflexively stoked his hand through Sherlock's dark curls. Sherlock sighed. John relaxed.

"John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I am feeling no great love for the songs of Newfoundland at the moment."

John chuckled weakly.

"Me neither."

oOo

Early Evening

Lestrade bent over the third body.

"Christ, this is getting out of hand," he muttered to no one in particular.

"Sorry? What did you say?" asked Sally.

Lestrade shrugged, "Oh hell if I know. The press is going to have a field day now that there's three."

"Looks like the same MO. Gonna call Fre…Holmes?" Sally had been trying to give up calling Sherlock Freak, mostly because she had been dead wrong about him, partly because she felt guilty, but more importantly because Lestrade had told her if she did it again she'd be working nights for two months. She believed him. Look what happened to Anderson, after all.

Lestrade looked at her. His eyes narrowed. He knew she'd been trying, but he was too tired to be nice. "Watch it Donovan. And for God's sake Do Not say that in front of Watson. He has yet to forgive you."

Sally nodded.

Anderson looked up from his examination. He climbed to his feet with a groan, rubbing his forehead.

"You alright?" Lestrade asked, not really caring much.

"No. Damn headache. It's killing me."

"Well take something for it and get on with it." Lestrade snapped. He turned to Sally. "Contact Dimmock. Tell him to take his men and canvass the area. We need witnesses, information, whatever. We have blanket authority to get what ever we want for this and I want more men. We are not going to be able to cover everything on this and keep a lid on it." He pulled out his mobile and sent off a text.

_There's another GL_

He waited, longer than he thought he would have too.

_Be there soon. There's been an interesting development SH_

_Oh? GL_

_Tell you there SH_

He didn't have to wait long. It was once more within walking distance of Baker Street, but this time to the west.

_That's all the press would need. Try to link this shite to Sherlock again. _Greg ran his hand through his hair.

A taxi pulled up and the two men got out, the shorter stopping to pay the fair. _Christ they both look as though Armageddon's happening. Of course with all the bloody sacrifices and shite it might not be far off._

Sherlock nodded to Lestrade and strode off to the body. He ignored Anderson who sneered mightily in Sherlock's direction but refrained from saying anything. John made his way over to where Lestrade was standing.

"Greg can I speak to you somewhere less public?"

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and nodded. He led the way to his car.

John climbed into the front beside the detective inspector. He then proceeded to fill him in on the morning's happenings at Baker Street. Greg's mouth fell open a little more with each revelation and he finally shook his head.

"You know no one else would believe this, right?"

John just looked at him.

"Yeah I guess you do. What the hell are we going to do now? You sure the madman's not creeping around the uh, other madman's head?"

John raised an eyebrow. "No, I am not and thanks for comparing Sherlock to Moriarty."

Greg had the decency to blush a little, "Yeah, but you got to admit…"

John rolled his eyes, "Anyway, Sherlock seems to think the song was a trigger. I'm…well…I'm just not sure. I have no frame of reference for this particular bit of weirdness. And believe me I have had a lot of experience with weird. And not just talking Sherlock."

"Nothing like this happen before?"

John frowned, "No. I don't think so, but the memories from some of the past lives aren't as clear any more. Not since I got shot the second time." He trailed off. Wasn't there something Sherlock was going to tell him? Before Moriarty's house call?

Greg shook his head, "What I wouldn't give for a nice normal murder."

John grinned a little, "Careful what you wish for."

Greg looked at him seriously, "You be careful John. If this is Moriarty and if he really is messing with sacrifices and Greek shite, it's not going to be good."

John didn't say anything.

They both watched Sherlock stand up, say something snide to Anderson and walk toward Lestrade's vehicle. Before he got there another car pulled up. DI Dimmock climbed up and strode over to Lestrade's car. John got out. He nodded to Dimmock and walked towards Sherlock. Anderson stormed past obviously on his way to complain about something Sherlock had done or said. Donovan walked over to join the others. John stopped in front of the detective.

"Well?"

"Exactly the same as the other two. Nothing new here. Almost dull, predictable."

"Sherlock!"

"Well really, John. You'd think there would be some variety with each murder. But no. They are almost identical. Except for two are women and one is a man." He turned to his partner. "How'd Lestrade take it?"

"About as well as expected. I think he believes me, us."

Suddenly there was a sharp yelling from the direction of where Lestrade and the others were talking. The two men turned quickly toward the cry. They saw people scrambling backwards. The ground appeared to be moving.

"What the hell?" said John. He started to move forward. Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"Wait."

"What is it?"

"Snakes."

"What?"

"Did I stutter? Snakes."

John glanced at Sherlock in disbelief. Could this get any weirder? He walked towards the commotion and saw what looked like hundreds of black snakes crawling all around the alleyway.

"For Christ's sakes! First all the fucking dogs and now snakes!" cried Lestrade.

"What do you mean dogs?" asked John as he approached.

Anderson sneered at him, "What? Haven't you heard all the damn dogs barking and howling for the last two days? Drive you mad."

John was thinking furiously. Sherlock had come up behind him and stared at the doctor. "What is it?"

John stared back at Sherlock, "I know what he's doing."

Sherlock didn't have to ask whom. He just waited for John to tell him.

"He's bringing Hecate on Earth."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in puzzlement, "So? Didn't Eleri do that is when she cursed Acrisias?"

John shook his head, "No. That was just an apparition. A visit from the Goddess. The Gods can come to Earth in a semi-corporeal form and interact and touch you, but they are only partly here. If they came to Earth, on this plane of existence, as it were, that would be more than a bit not good."

"How much more?"

"Total end of the world a bit more."

A snake went crawling by, right over Sherlock's foot. He ignored it. John watched it go with a look of growing horror on his face. "This is why Eleri has been so upset. She recognized what was happening. I didn't. I'm too removed from the rituals, from the old knowledge."

Sherlock just nodded. 'That may be partly my fault."

"What are you talking about?"

"I believe I started to try and tell you, but that song interfered with everything and then I don't remember the next part."

John glared at Sherlock. "We need to sit own and talk about this with Greg and I think it may be time to inform your brother."

"Oh yes. By all means bring in the Government. You remember how well he accepted the last supernatural event. I believe he threatened you with harm if I were hurt and he was seriously thinking of sectioning the both of us."

"I know. I was there. But I think we need to convince him. He's going to want to know if London is going to end anytime soon. He's rather attached to it."

Sherlock flung his arms up in acceptance, "Fine! Let's collect Lestrade. Maybe with him on our side Mycroft will be more willing to listen. He's the only one out of the three of us that he likes."

While the two men had been talking it appeared that the snakes had disappeared. Lestrade ran over to them. "Okay this really is Armageddon isn't it?" John and Sherlock looked at him.

"You have no idea," said John.

"We need to talk and we need to talk with Mycroft about this as well. You will bring all the evidence from the crime scenes over to Baker Street. I will contact Mycroft and convince him to join us. Won't that be delightful?" exasperation coloured Sherlock's voice.

The three men were deep in conversation. John rubbed the back of his neck. It felt like someone was watching him. He felt the same sense of revulsion he had felt when Sherlock/Moriarty had spoken to him. He turned and scanned the crowd, but no one seemed to be watching them. Everyone was milling around talking and pointing at the snakes. He frowned and turned back to the conversation.


	5. 5 Hell in a Handbasket

**A/N: Sorry this is taking so long to update. Moriarty was not cooperating and was being difficulty (shocking I know) even though he barely appears in this chapter. As a special treat for keeping you waiting, I've include a big reveal for all of your patience. Some of you may want to throw things at me after, but that's a hazard I'm willing to take.**

**Thanks to IlCapo for following & gmgpk for favouriting. I apologize if I have forgotten anyone! I believe there may be some folks out there who have favourited the first story TNER, - I do appreciate your favourites, follows & reviews as well but I'm starting to lose track of you!**

**Warnings – swearing (surprise!), the foreshadowing of dashed of hopes, a little Mycroftyness and a big reveal.**

**Listening to Sarah McLachlan song Possession (this is a damn sexy song! makes me want to write naughty bits) whilst writing. In Canada we don't usually write 'whilst' – it makes me feel very British – I usually forget to check if I've written it as well – so on that note Any Mistakes Are Mine & any Canadianisms please forgive!**

**In case you forgot – I Don't Own!**

Chapter 5. Hell in a Handbasket

"_If we're all going to hell in a handbasket, we might as well make it a party on the way down"_

James St. James, _Party Monster: A Fabulous But True Tale of Murder in Clubland_

One Hour Later

Sherlock sat back and looked at John. John sat in his chair and looked toward the window. He was quiet. Sometimes John needed to be quiet to process information, to 'mull' things over. He was usually quiet when presented with radical Sherlock ideas and thoughts. Such as now. The song was gone from Sherlock's head and he remembered all the little details he'd forgotten. He had just spent the last few minutes whilst they were waiting for Lestrade to show up explaining what he now remembered about the day John had died. Sherlock was feeling a strange sensation in his stomach. He thought it might be anxiety. He wasn't sure how John was taking the news about the idea that Sherlock's disappearance for a year and a bit may have been due to the fact that Sherlock had been doing him a favour. In retrospect, it didn't feel like much of a favour.

Sherlock sat on the couch, his long fingers drummed on his knee, the only outward sign of the feeling that now coursed throughout him.

John abruptly stood up and crossed over to where Sherlock was sitting. He sat down beside the detective and pulled him in for a hard kiss, his fingers tangled in the younger man's hair. "You are an idiot you know," he said softly, his forehead resting against the other man's. "Of all the people in the world who hates sentiment as much as you do and you make a deal with a goddess for me. That's more than a little hot, you know." Sherlock felt tension flow out of his body. John was not angry. He didn't mind terribly when John was angry as in annoyed as in 'you used the kettle for experiments again' or 'there are too many severed toes in the fridge'. He didn't mind John angry because he, Sherlock, had hogged all the covers again or assumed John would make tea from now until the end of time. He usually ignored that John. He did mind John angry because Sherlock had done something irreparable to their relationship. It scared him, just a little.

Sometimes John was just as good at reading Sherlock as Sherlock was at reading John. "You were worried I'd be angry because of what we went through, weren't you? I'm not angry, Sherlock, or at least not because you wanted to give me some relief. I was angry you didn't tell me and let me think you were dead, but perhaps it was out of your hands" John shrugged. "It doesn't matter now. That's the past. Can't change it. Believe me. I'm an expert." Some of John's dry humour was expressed in that statement. The doctor sighed. "But I will continue to be angry with you if you continue to neglect to keep me in the loop. I told you once already, that's the only way this is going to work." He gave the younger man a shake and then kissed him again. Sherlock was thinking it was a shame the world was ending and that his brother could show up at any minute and that Lestrade would turn up because he felt John deserved a thorough shagging.

_Perhaps if the world doesn't end tonight_, he thought somewhat wistfully, even if he didn't usually participate in such activities during a case. Still this was John and he felt he had a lot to make up to the man. Perhaps if he thought of it as doing John a favour.

John snapped him out of his reverie, which was just as well, considering the fact that his trousers were beginning to feel uncomfortable, with a comment.

"You are certain she said there was someone in London who practiced the old ways? A priestess of Hecate?" John tilted his head to one side. "And that your enemy, whom we can more than assume means Moriarty, would 'seek her out'? Well I guess he must have learned a few tricks from her. I have never heard of anyone besides me who was able to remember past lives."

Sherlock looked at John intensely, "It's more than remembering past lives, isn't it. He didn't have time to be reborn and grow up. He must be using someone else the way he used me, but perhaps on a more permanent basis." John tried not to shudder at the memory of Moriarty sharing Sherlock's body, but he couldn't hide it from the detective.

"We must assume it's somebody we know," the younger man continued. "Probably someone who's not the same, whose personality has changed."

"Yeah, well for a while there it was your personality," muttered John.

Sherlock looked at him darkly. He had hoped John had gotten over that by now.

At that moment the doorbell rang.

They both said together, "Lestrade."

Two Hours Later

The usual Baker Street clutter had not been enhanced by the addition of End of the World clutter. Crime scene photos were tacked up to the wall next to a map of London. File folders and boxes were stacked precariously on the table and there was a pile of books beside John's chair where John was currently sitting. Most of the books were from when Sherlock had been researching how to help John in what felt like a lifetime ago. He'd continued to purchase the odd tome long after the fact. John held a book in his lap with one hand. The other hand was up to his face, his fingers idly drummed on his lips.

Greg and Sherlock were stood and looked at the evidence tacked onto the wall. There was no sign of Mycroft. He had been informed of the events. He had yet to make an appearance.

"Obviously the next murder will happen to the north and within proximately of Baker Street. Regent's Park is north. That seems like a likely place although rather public. I think I understand the cardinal directions and how they play a part in this. It's represented in many religions, but why Baker Street. It's not of historical significance, except for inane bits of trivia."

"Like what?" asked Greg.

John piped up "The Beatles Apple Boutique was based there from 1967 to 1968." He glanced up. The other two men were looking at him one in bemusement, the other in irritation.

"What?" said John, a little sheepishly, "I know a lot trivia about the Beatles."

"Although their music is meant for consumption by the masses," Sherlock, who tried very hard to overlook his partner's musical tastes, said with a tone that implied the masses were stupid. "I do not think the fact that their _Boutique_ was located on Baker Street is the reason for Moriarty to commit a series of gruesome killings. Not unless he was driven insane by listening to it." Sherlock was not overly fond of modern music. He considered anything past 1900 modern.

"Seriously Sherlock. You know why he's doing it here. I'm surprised you're even speculating on any other reason," John turned back to his book.

"Yes, John," irritation was creeping into Sherlock's voice, "I realize it's because we live here and it probably seems like a good idea to Dear Jim to carve up innocent people at our door step, but there must be another reason. I can not find any information on whether there were ancient temples or sacrificial sites or sites of any significance at this location and that does not include the Baker Street Tube Station as being one of the oldest surviving in the world." Sherlock kicked a random box across the flat. John just stared and turned back to his book, too use to temperamental outbursts from the detective, although he was rarely at the receiving end of them any more.

Greg ignored the rant and concentrated on what they did know. "The next victim is likely to be male if that is the pattern."

John spoke again, "Have you found anything out about the previous victims, identity wise?"

"No," Greg frowned, "There have been no hits on missing persons and nothing's come back from fingerprints. It's like they don't exist."

John put down the book he'd been looking through and picked up another. This one was a copy of Virgil, The Aeneid. Greg heard him muttering something about classic literature and hating it in school. He wondered if that was because John had probably had to read it more times than most over all those lifetimes. He shuddered. Once had been enough for all that dry, dusty literature.

Greg turned back to Sherlock, "I've got Dimmock and a bunch of others looking into anyone in London who might be practicing black magic, devil worship or anything weird and freaky like that, but there's got to be a bunch of people with ties to that kind of thing from palm readers to fortunetellers."

Sherlock grunted, "Tell them to look for someone with ties to Greek religion, although I'm sure they will be covering their tracks." Sherlock had filled Greg in about the conversation with the goddess. Greg was less than impressed that Sherlock hadn't thought to tell him sooner.

John was flipping randomly thorough the pages of Virgil, "Isn't this about Rome? Why am I reading a book where everyone ends up in Rome when this all started in Greece."

Sherlock didn't bother to turn to speak to John. He continued to stare at the map on the wall. "I'm sure I don't know why you are looking through that particular book John, I purchased several books that made reference to Hecate and that was…" He stopped and whirled around to look at John. "That's it John!" and he rushed over to grab the book out of the older man's hands. He flipped through the pages until he came to a page where he had scrawled some notes. He turned the book around and thrust it back into John's hands. "Here, read this."

John frowned at the script in front of him and then up at Sherlock. He began to read, skipping parts because the entirety was far too long:

_"The Sibyl first lined up four black-skinned bullocks, poured a libation wine upon their foreheads, and then, plucking the topmost hairs from between their brows, she placed these on the altar fires as an initial offering, calling aloud upon Hecate, powerful in heaven and hell. While others laid their knives to these victim's throats, and caught the fresh warm blood in bowls, Aeneas sacrifices a black-fleeced lamb to Nox, the mother of the Furiae, and her great sister, Terra, and a barren heifer to Proserpine. Then Aeneas set up altars by night to the god of the Underworld, laying upon the flames whole carcasses of bulls and pouring out rich oil over the burning entrails. But listen! At the very first crack of dawn, the ground underfoot began to mutter, the woody ridges to quake, and a baying of hounds was heard through the half-light: the goddess was coming, Hecate." _

"Oh dear Lord," whispered Greg.

John looked at Sherlock, "This is the last part, the last rite he needs to bring her here, on this plane. The first four deaths will open the door. The last four will draw her through. That's what he's going to do. He must have either read this or…"

"The Sibyl, the person who's the priestess, she told him where to look."

John' s eyes glittered. "He's not going to use bullocks though is he? That's what he meant. He's going to use us and two of our friends." They both turned and instinctively looked at Greg.

"Oh Christ," he muttered. "My insurance isn't paid up."

"I don't think you're covered for this, mate," said John.

"I wonder who the fourth is?" mused Sherlock.

oOo

Molly rushed home after work. It had been a long time since she had been on an honest to goodness date and she was looking forward to it. She let herself in, flicked on the lights. He was going to come and pick her up here and she wanted to change quickly and tidy up a bit. She stopped to pick up her cat, Toby for a quick cuddle and give him a bit of dinner. Then she rushed up to her bedroom and changed into the pretty summer outfit she'd treated herself to. She pulled her hair out of her usual ponytail and ran her brush through it. She brushed her teeth and then applied a lovely shade of pink lipstick.

The doorbell rang.

She ran down the stairs. He was a bit early. She grabbed a sweater in case it got cold later and took her old trainers and several magazines and threw them into the closet by the front door.

She was very excited. He was young and handsome and sweet.

And after the fiasco with Jim so long ago now, where it was such a mess and she had been so hurt and then to find out he'd done all those horrible things and separated Sherlock from John and she'd had to help and it been so sad and so hard to look John in the eye because she had known and couldn't tell but now they were back together and even though she felt wistful feeling towards Sherlock even still, she knew they were perfect and now she knew everything was going to be just perfect for her as well.

What could go wrong? He was a police officer after all.

oOo

"It's a little different from what they did with the first three victims," said John. "That's more of a traditional sacrifice. This is more formal. There must be an incantation or something to go with it, but Virgil didn't know it or he was just good at guessing the rest."

"Don't you know?" asked Sherlock softly, partly curious about what John knew and remembered and partly afraid for John about what he knew and remembered.

John shook his head, "This would have been knowledge given to the head priestess only. Eleri was still in the middle of the ranks. She knew enough for me to identify what's been going on, but not the final rites as it were."

Lestrade spoke up. "Okay. We know they are going to do this sacrifice North of Baker Street within walking distance of the flat, so we just need to be patrolling all around, paying particular attention to Regent's Park and see if maybe we can prevent the fourth murder from happening. John, if we can stop this fourth murder will that stop life as we know it from ending?"

John looked at Greg and then shrugged. "Best guess? Should do. Will it for sure? Hell, I don't know."

Greg pulled out his mobile, "I'll get Dimmock to set up patrols. Get him off of looking for Greek fortunetellers. I doubt he'll be thrilled about it. I'm thinking they're going to strike sooner rather than later. Maybe if I put him onto this he might be happier. Arrogant sod. Been giving underlings a hard time and making some inappropriate comments, doesn't matter your sex. Think's he's god's gift and all. Makes DI, junior under me mind, but thinks that means he doesn't have to do any legwork and can show up at work whenever the hell he likes. The bastard's gotten rather stroppy lately. Guess a promotion can change a guy." He walked into the kitchen to call Scotland Yard.

Sherlock ignored Lestrade's ramblings and sat. He wanted to ensure that Mrs. Hudson was out of the area before 'all hell broke loose'. As he was wondering where he should send her, a part of him was becoming annoyed that Mycroft hadn't bothered to show up yet.

_You think he'd be interested in London being destroyed by a vengeful goddess._

That's when he heard a familiar tread upon the stairs.

"Speak of the devil," Sherlock smirked as Mycroft entered the flat.

"And he appears," finished Mycroft, smirk for smirk. "My dear brother, John, and Detective Inspector, to what do I owe this latest round of madness?" He glanced John's way as he said this. Although Mycroft had gotten over John's last bout with what he termed in his private thoughts 'as being as mad as a March hare', he was still uncomfortable around the good doctor. Even so he did have a certain level of respect for the man. After all he put up with Sherlock and lived to tell the tale. But there was only so much nonsense one could deal with when a supposedly sensible fellow like John believed he was a reincarnated Greek priestess. Of course he also owed John for keeping from him the fact that he knew Sherlock was alive and was actively helping him. Keeping track of the red and the black in the ledgers of one's life was intoxicating to Mycroft. He had lists and lists of tally marks in his head.

And then there was the little matter of the stranger who visited his bedroom last night. That had gone a ways to making Mycroft more amiable to listening to the good doctor and his little brother.

Mycroft glanced around at the mess that was all over the flat, paused here and there and assessed what he was seeing and was weighed it and judged.

"So supposedly we are looking at the End of the World according to your text Sherlock. Well I would like you to know I would have trouble believing you except for one small detail," he paused for dramatic effect.

_Damn the Holmes brothers and dramatic effect_, thought John.

John and Sherlock both stilled, curious as to what would change Mycroft mind about supernatural events.

"I enjoyed a rather strange visit last night by a being who claimed to be Hades."

The three men looked at each other and back at Mycroft. Sherlock narrowed his eyes to assess whether his brother was pulling his leg. Not that that was a Mycroft-like trait. Sherlock glanced over at John and locked eyes with him. He nodded sharply. Mycroft was telling the truth.

"Well," said John, "that's… different."

"Yes," said Mycroft hanging up his umbrella and sitting down on the couch, "I would say that is a bit of an understatement, John. It was more than anything I have ever experienced and I believe I owe you," he nodded at John, "a rather heartfelt apology."

"S'all right,"

"No, no I really must insist on apologizing. Frankly I have never been so surprised in my life," And Mycroft looked rather uncomfortable with this admission. "Shall I set the scene?"

John and Sherlock both prepared to listen when they overheard Lestrade yelling on the phone in the other room, "What do you mean he's on a date? I told everybody in the bloody division to forget having any free nights until this was over. Get him on the phone and tell him to cancel his date. I don't care who the fuck he's dating." They could see Greg's colour rising the longer he was in this conversation. They watched as his face turned from fury to surprise. "Really? No, no that's not my business. Call him and tell him to cancel and get this bloody thing organized. Right the fuck now!" He hung up his mobile. He strode back into the living room and noticed everyone was looking at him. "Sorry about that. Dimmock bloody decided to go on a bleeding date in the middle of a case." He paused and grinned, "You'll never believe with who."

John was the only one to bite. "No idea."

"Molly Hooper."

John's eyebrows went up. "Well good for her. Maybe she'll smarten him up. I rather thought he was a decent sort."

Greg ran his hands through his hair. "Yeah, I guess. I always thought so, except…"

Sherlock's head swiveled in Greg's direction. There was something in his voice. Snippets of the tirade Lestrade had been on before he went into the kitchen flashed through his head.

_I doubt he'll be thrilled about it. _

_Maybe if I put him onto this he might be happier._

_Arrogant sod. _

_The bastard's gotten rather stroppy lately. _

_Been giving underlings a hard time and making some inappropriate comments, doesn't matter your sex. _

_Guess a promotion can change a guy. _

_Thinks that means he doesn't have to do any legwork and can show up at work whenever the hell he likes._

"Except something's different now, isn't it? He's different." Sherlock said softly. "How long?"

"What?"

Sherlock snapped at Greg, "How long has he been different? When did he change for the worse?"

Greg looked startled. "How did you know he's worse?"

"He's been coming in late for work hasn't he? And not doing his job. He's been arguing and making snide comments, perhaps inappropriate or lewd remarks. You've had complaints. Does that sound like the Dimmock you know? Because the one I know is conscientious and polite, gets the job done and wants to impress. But it's only been in the last few days, hasn't it, ever since the murders started."

"How…" Greg turned white. "Oh Christ. Do you think?"

"Yes. It has to be someone we know. It makes sense that he works at the Yard. He has access to the crime scene and he's probably hiding evidence. And he's not the same person you knew. He has changed. And now he is conveniently dating Molly Hooper. Molly Hooper who went out with Jim Moriarty. The one person he didn't try to kill. How nice of him to show up to finish the job.

I know who Moriarty is and the fourth friend."


	6. 6 Mastering Evil

**A/N: Thanks again for the lovely reviews & follows & favourites – you spoil me.**

**Thanks to SassyVeeDub , Guest reviewer (hope you caught your breath!) & elmo98**

**Warnings – usual – you know – swearing, not a whole lot. Still playing Possession by Sarah McLachlan in my head. Cannot shake it when I think of this story. Consider this as a warning. You really should listen to it, especially during the last bit (smirk).**

Chapter 6. Mastering Evil

"_There are other forces at work in this world Frodo, besides the will of evil." Gandalf the Grey TFTR - movie_

Same Time

They were all so stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid. They thought they were figuring it out. They thought they knew why he'd sacrificed his followers that way, but they were wrong. WRONG!

And the whole time these lovely little thoughts were going through his head he was charming and smiling and being nice for fuck's sake, because honestly, despite the unbearable sweetness of the woman beside him, he did actually like her, in a way. As much as he was capable of liking anyone. She was probably the first person who had been nice to him just for niceness sake. Not because he was rich, or powerful, or because they wanted something, or because he was about to have one of his men cut their fucking throats. No she had been nice to him. Well actually to Jim Moriarty, who as far as the world was concerned was officially dead. She was also nice to this clod Dimmock whose body he happened to inhabit at the moment. He promised himself that because of that he would be gentle with her. When it came time to kill her. He would be sweet right back and he would be gentle. It's the least she deserved.

He turned and smiled at the pretty brunette sitting beside him. "I hope you don't mind, but I have to make a quick stop before we go to dinner. I promise it will be so worth it and, well," he said shyly, "It's kind of a surprise."

"Oh, of course. I...I don't mind. Oh no, what ever you want…that's fine." And she giggled a little nervously.

No. Definitely. He'd make it quick. When he killed her.

oOo

"He's going after Molly?" Lestrade looked grim and somewhat territorial. He had a fondness for the coroner. More than a fondness if he was honest with himself, although he rather thought he might not be her type and perhaps he was too old for her, but…_Focus Greg_.

"It makes sense. He will use her and us to complete the cross over of the goddess,"

said Sherlock.

"Unless he is planning on using her as the fourth sacrifice. Maybe he's going to use another friend instead of her," mused John.

"Well John that would work except it's not like I have many friends!" Sherlock said sarcastically.

"We need to get Mrs. Hudson somewhere safe and I wouldn't put it past him to go after Mycroft here," replied the doctor, once again ignoring his partner's ranting.

Mycroft smiled. "He can try," he said somewhat drily. He turned to his brother. "You know Sherlock I believe I can be of assistance. I was about to tell you of a visit I had last night with the god of the dead, Hades as he was known to the Greeks."

Sherlock looked witheringly at his brother, "I am not interested in the salacious and sordid details of a night time visit you might have had with a god, Mycroft. "

John looked sharply at Sherlock. He was being even more difficult than usual. John was about to pull him aside and reel him in when he noticed Mycroft expression. Seriously? Was he blushing? Okay he so did not want to know.

"Well, yes, hmmm," Mycroft cleared his throat, his blush deepening a bit. "I came to inform you that Hades visited last night with a proposition. According to him the gods are not technically suppose to interfere, but he is more than a little 'put out' with both Hecate and Moriarty. Supposedly once you are dead you are suppose to stay dead. Moriarty has broken certain rules and laws. Hecate is also guilty of interference. Now this all falls under Hades purview. He wants what is his back. And he told me exactly how to go about doing it. John, I should warn you, this might cause you some discomfort."

oOo

Molly was a little surprised when they pulled up to Baker Street. She'd been here once or twice before while Sherlock had been away dead and all. She had come to check on John, guilt motivating her. She hadn't wanted to come very often because she didn't think it would take much for John to figure out what she was keeping from him, but she had felt an obligation to look after him, both for his sake and Sherlock's.

"So, why are we here?" she asked the man sitting beside her.

"Oh I have to drop something off for Lestrade. He's visiting. Can't go into much detail because it's for a case." He smiled at her. "But I am also getting the surprise for you here. Say why don't you come up with me? You know Sherlock and John, right? I'm sure their dying to talk to you."

"Oh. Okay. I guess," even though she had mostly sorted through her feelings about the detective she still felt somewhat awkward around him. But she did like John and he had been so forgiving about her part in the conspiracy to keep Sherlock dead. So she smiled and climbed out of the car. She stood by the door, holding the young man's hand while they waited for someone to answer the ring of the bell.

oOo

The front bell rang.

"Are you expecting anyone?" asked Mycroft.

Sherlock shook his head and walked over to the window.

"Well that _is_ unexpected. It's 'Dimmock' and Molly." Everyone could hear the quotes. "Looks like we are doing this here." He turned and looked at John, his face expressing everything.

_Are you alright?_

John felt mostly recovered and looked somewhat pale, but determined. He nodded slightly and winced. _Headache._

_I'm going to kill Mycoft!_

John just grinned.

Sherlock ran down the stairs, adrenalin coursing through his veins. Here, now hopefully on the other side of the door, was the man who had caused so much anguish and grief in their lives. This time he was not going to tiptoe around showing off. This time he was going to kill the murdering bastard or at least help facilitate his death. For his sake and Molly's and Greg's and anyone else touched by his sliminess.

But mostly for John Watson.

One of the most decent people and one who had changed Sherlock in ways big and small and put up with all of his failings.

The one who loved him without conditions or limits.

Sherlock took a deep breath, plastered on a big smile and swung the door open.

"Hello Jim! I'd say good to see you, but since it isn't I'll skip the formalities. Why don't you take that big knife away from Molly's lovely throat and let her go and come on in so we can have a nice chat about how you are going to die and stay that way."

A mad, wild grin formed across Dimmock's face, which looked out of place on the handsome young man, but just as John had recognized something of Jim in Sherlock's face, so did the detective in the young DI's.

"Now Sherlock, you and I know that isn't going to happen and as for lovely Molly here," and he gave her an almost chaste kiss on her cheek, "she is so important to my plans."

Sherlock glanced at Molly trying to convey something to her, something of hope and strength. He was surprised at the resilience he saw in her eyes and a determination to not let Jim frighten her. He also saw confusion. This was turning into probably the weirdest date she been on. She was still reeling a little from the shock of her date pulling a knife on her as Sherlock came to the door and Sherlock calling him Jim.

As Jim/Dimmock stepped over the threshold a small group of people, seemingly coming out of nowhere, followed after him. They had come up behind Jim and were standing there silently. They were all young, late teens, and looked excited and anxious, almost as if they could already smell the blood in the air. Two of them had guns. Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Dull_, he thought.

Sherlock backed slowly up the stairs, knowing if he rushed Jim, Molly would die. At the same time he looked for an opening, hoping to get Molly out of this. She did not deserve to be caught up in this madness.

Jim and his group of teenage miscreants followed him. As Sherlock entered the flat backward he heard the other men shift and move into positions.

The four men stood there as Jim took over the flat. Quickly the three or four who were not armed got to work. The coffee table was moved out of the way and a brass brazier was set it up in the middle of the flat. Fortunately they did not start a fire underneath it, but one brought another brass container out from somewhere and removed a live coal from it and placed it inside the brazier. Then a young woman threw handfuls of herbs into it. A sweet sickly smell permeated through the flat and breathing became somewhat difficult.

As Molly's life was on the line the four men allow themselves to be bound, hands tied behind their backs. They all glance at one another, John and Sherlock's silent communication perfected between the two but through different bonds of brotherhood Greg and Mycroft were also able to contribute to the conversation. They waited for Mycroft's signal.

Jim gently led Molly over to join the others. He jerked his head in the direction of Mycroft and he was moved to one side. The others were placed in a circle across from each other all around the brazier. Jim rolled up his sleeves and looked intently at the knife he held.

"You haven't finished the opening Jim," drawls Sherlock, "You're a sacrifice short." His speaking out earned him a hard smack on the back of the head. John hissed, but sensed movement from behind him so he refrained from moving.

Jim giggled quietly. "Oh Sherlock, I see you haven't changed. You are still trying to out think me, still trying to make more out of it than what's there. Secret computer code all over again. You see three bodies and presume that there will be a fourth because of what Johnny boy remembers. Well I hate to disappoint you but there already _was_ a fourth. And as for the sacrifices they were just for show. They were to satisfy my loyal followers. And because I could! I could have just killed three regular people off of the street and with the right words it would have achieved the same ends. But the real reason was because it was all for you Sherlock."

"You really enjoy self aggrandizement and the melodrama of divulging secrets don't you Jim." He received another cuff to the back of his head, this time hard enough to drive him to his knees. John gritted his teeth and wished Sherlock would simply shut up, but he knew he was buying time for Mycroft's signal.

Greg spoke up, "So who's the first one then?"

Jim giggled harder, "Do you know Detective Inspector, Hecate asked for you especially, because of your interference? Helping bring these two together. Your whole family was involved in remembering the details of the curse and handing it down and you were there to help break it. She wants you to see everyone die first and then you get to go very, very slowly."

This whole time Jim had circled around the group until he stood behind Greg and he whispered in his ear, but loud enough for all to hear. "You know who was the first if you think about it. It was Detective Inspector Dimmock. His death was the very first. He had to die in order to insure my existence and return to good health. It was at the same time the most painful and exquisite sensation of my life, taking a life from the _inside_. Crushing his soul."

He moved away from Greg and over to Molly. "And you dear, sweet Molly, you go first for this round and I promise you, for the kindness you showed me, it will be quick and painless."

Sweet, kind, caring Molly did not look so sweet and kind. In fact she did something surprising and something the men in the room thought of as being out of character. She head butted Jim. Little did they know that she had taken several self-defense classes and it was only surprise and trust that had allowed Jim to place a knife at her throat.

"I..I'm not sure what the hell this is all about, but if you really are Jim, you used me once. I won't let you do that to me again. Not willingly."

"Ooo whoo hoo, the mouse has grown some fangs, I see. Don't worry mouse. I think it's sexy. Maybe you won't get a painless death after all." He rubbed at his forehead. He moved over to John.

"John. Dear sweet John. Once again I regret that we don't have time to play. That little visit I had through Sherlock was just a taste of what we could have had." He looked thoughtfully over at Mycroft. "You know if you begged me I could substitute Chuckles over there for you and keep you around for a bit, but too bad. I've already promised you to the goddess. She is not happy with you. Well mustn't keep her waiting. The door is open. Time to let the goddess in."

Sherlock looked up from where he was kneeling, "You don't have the Sibyl here. Oh yes I see. You killed her just recently. Got tired of watching her? Wanted to finally get your hands dirty, Jim? So you are going to do the job yourself? Interesting."

Jim just smiled. He moved over to the brazier and inhaled the smoke that was rising. He started to chant something that only John understood. It sent shivers through his body. He translated in his head.

"Goddess of magic and night,

I call upon you.

Goddess of the crossroads,

I beseech you.

The door is open,

The way is clear,

Accept these sacrifices

To allow your presence

Upon the Earth."

A strange sound filled their ears, a deep groaning sound, as if the very earth itself was crying out. A slight trembling was felt which gradually increased. The people in the room realized that books were falling off the shelves. In the distance car alarms were set off and the barking of dogs could be heard. The groaning sound grew louder and everyone could feel the pressure building in their ears. John recognized the sound. The stones of the earth were crying out in agony as the ground shifted underneath the building. In the corner of the room near the bookcase a dark, malevolent presence could be felt. In the air the feeling of imminent death, the feeling a mouse has just before the hawk swoops down or the rabbit caught by a fox pressed down upon them.

Mycroft spoke for the first time since Jim had entered the room.

"Now John!"

John began his own chant, in counter point to Jim's. He was using a different rhythm of words and it was crossing over and wrapping around the words the master criminal uttered. It was almost visible, just below normal sight. The sounds of the earth crying out were gradually fading as John's voice became stronger. The malevolence from the corner grew stronger and John felt the presence focus on him. He had begun to sweat and his head pounded.

Jim span around, startled.

"NO!" he shouted, "No, no, no!" he reached out and struck John hard across the face. John fell back against the cult member behind him. The young man grabbed John's hair and pulled back, laying a knife against John's throat. A thin trickle of blood ran down from John's split lip.

"That was incredibly stupid Watson. Stupid and dangerous." His eyes were mad and murderous.

John chuckled. "Do you even know what the real role of the priests and priestesses was in the temples, Jim? It wasn't just worship. It was to keep them in their place. To prevent them from crossing over. You didn't leave the Sibyl alive long enough to find that out. And I'd forgotten it in my muddled brain, but Mycroft helped me remember. I've closed the door Jim. And you can't open it again."

oOo

Earlier

Mycroft looked at John and John looked back.

"Hades gave me something to give to you. He said you have forgotten much in the last few centuries and with the gift of Athena. He said there is a specific chant or song that you need to close the door. And I have it to give to you."

John looked at Mycroft and titled his head, "Why do I have the feeling you aren't going to just tell me?"

Mycroft grimaced softly, not looking quite as uncomfortable as John felt he probably should. For once Sherlock was slow to catch on.

"What's going on?" asked the detective.

John glanced over at his partner. "Just promise me you won't kill your brother?"

"Why would I…" And he stopped, as his eyes got wider, taking in what his brother was doing to the man he loved. A small fierce animal started growling in his chest. He was about to interrupt the two who were…snogging was the word that came to his gobsmacked brain, but Greg put up a hand and stopped the man from moving despite the fact he looked decidedly embarrassed.

For Mycroft had taken John's face in his hands and had lowered his head and kissed the doctor gently. John's face stilled and a look of wonder and then intense pain crossed his face.

The two men finally broke apart, Mycroft looked slightly apologetic and bemused. John, like he'd been hit with a plank of wood.

"My apologizes to you and to my brother John. But that," and here he flushed again, "was how the knowledge was past to me. I must say I can see what my brother likes in you." He smirked in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock was looking decidedly murderous and it was only his promise to John that prevented him from committing fratricide.

"No offense Mycroft, but I think I prefer your brother," John said, looking pale and he quietly shook his head.

Mycroft simply continued to smirk.

oOo

Present

"Now that the door is closed," said Mycroft, "here is my little gift to you, Moriarty." He closed his eyes and suddenly a cold draft blew through the room, and a different feeling of death and mortality, one that signaled rest rather than extermination entered the room. It was strangely peaceful.

In the corner near the kitchen a pale shape was appearing. A tall, rather handsome man stood. Stern and melancholy. Sad.

As his form grew more solid Jim's eyes grew bigger. The sad, handsome man looked straight at Jim and there was no pity there.

"You have taken things that did not belong to you. I cannot help those who you murdered, for their lives and bodies have ended, but there is one who I can at least give a chance to earn his body back." His eyes bore into Jim and Jim clutched his head. He fell to his knees and writhed upon the ground. A startled moan came from him and grew as the minutes past. Suddenly there was a final agonized wail and the eyes in DI Dimmock's body rolled up and he collapsed. The feeling of malevolence disappeared entirely and the ground completely stopped moving and crying out.

The god in the corner looked strangely satisfied. He then turned to the other cult members in the room. Smoke seemed to come out of their ears and they too collapsed to the floor, but unlike the body of the DI theirs were not breathing. The ropes tying the five fell to the ground.

The god then spoke, "With the death of the Sibyl, so should knowledge of this particular rite end. Hecate has been denied crossing. It would have been bad business for all had she succeeded. The Earth would have more than cried out and the piles of the dead would have mounted to the skies."

John crossed over and knelt down beside the unconscious form of Dimmock.

"He will be alright," continued Hades. "He is stronger than he looks. I brought him back and gave him the chance to earn his body back. He was willing and able to fight against the creature known as Moriarty. Moriarty in his first life might have been difficult to defeat, but in his new life he did not realize he was weakened and it made it easier to fight him. The DI will awaken with a headache and no memory of the past events."

He then frowned at John, his stare heavy, "There is one small matter, however that needs to be addressed. You should not be alive."

John stared back, not afraid. He had felt something in the pit of his stomach when he felt the god enter the room. Athena had spared his life according to Sherlock, but maybe it was not her place to do so.

A horrified "No" filled the air, as Sherlock struggled to his feet intent on standing in front of John and protecting him.

Mycroft however merely cleared his throat, "I think you will find that Athena did indeed grant him an extension. The doctor's life is not forfeit. You are simply being greedy."

The others looked at Mycroft in amazement. Mycroft glanced around. Really it was no different from dealing with many of the Ambassadors from other countries. He turned back to the god.

"Besides I would not take too kindly if you deprived my little brother of the one person who loves him as much as John does and who keeps him in line." And he looked pointedly at Hades. To the surprise of all in the room Hades looked abashed and he glided over to Mycroft. He bent and whispered something in his ear. Mycroft blushed and nodded. The god said nothing further and disappeared.

John looked from Greg to Sherlock to Molly. All except Sherlock had grins on their faces. Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, lost in trying to cover how upset he was at almost losing John once more.

A groan from the floor drew attention back to the DI. Molly quickly made her way over to the young man's side and helped him sit up.

"What the hell happened?" he asked.

The others looked toward Greg.

"Um erm, you were kidnapped by an End of the World Cult."

"What? How? What?" the DI shook his head and looked around the room wondering if everyone was pulling his leg.

Greg said quietly, "We'll explain it later. Molly, are you alright?"

Molly nodded, "Felt good to hit that arsehole," she said simply and then turned back to making sure Dimmock was okay. Only John noted the slightly pained expression on Greg's face as he looked at the two of them, but when Greg turned to face him his face was clear and John pretended he didn't see anything.

John went over to where Sherlock had struggled to his feet. He grabbed the detective's face and kissed him, the normally private man not caring for once who was looking. He then turned to Mycroft and said, "Greg might need some help explaining this one to his superiors, Mycroft." The other man stared at the doctor and then nodded.

"Umm. Sorry John, Sherlock, but we'll have to kick you out of the flat. It's one huge crime scene now."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I do believe that since the two of you have effectively saved the world from possible annihilation, the British Government can put you up in a hotel for the next few nights."

John grinned, "Room service?"

"Of course."

"Excellent!" his grin broadened and he turned to Sherlock. "Grab your things. We are going now!"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his John, "Someone's a little anxious."

John sidled up to his Sherlock and whispered, "Saving the world is incredibly hot."

Sherlock's eyebrows could not go any higher, "Why are you standing here? Go pack!"

oOo

Later

"So, mmmm, what do you think," sigh, "is up between your brother and Hades?"

"John, oh god, yes, right there. John, please do not speak of my brother when you are doing what you are doing with your tongue." Sherlock gasped.

John chuckled deeply which reverberated through Sherlock. They had been together several hours, enjoying each other, pleasuring, taking, exploring. Now was mostly after play. When they had first arrived, Sherlock had barely crossed the threshold of the hotel room when John had launched himself at the taller man and had him pinned to the mattress. The next hour or so had been full of raw, emotional, extremely hot and satisfying sex. Sherlock had recognized a need in John to dominate as John held his arms above his head and had simply and completely taken the detective apart leaving him looking thoroughly debauched. Their lovemaking had been an affirmation of their still being alive and John's added need to lay claim to Sherlock, in order to wipe any remaining memories of Moriarty's possession of Sherlock out of his head and apparently out of Sherlock's body. At least judging by the way John was going at it. He couldn't seem to get enough skin-to-skin contact with the taller man.

Sherlock looked down to where John was currently laying on him and his heart filled with such longing and love. He remembered how John had first kissed him in this room, hard and passionate and he remembered back to their very first kiss, back when Sherlock hadn't realized how tied they really were to each other. John had been reluctant. Sherlock hadn't realized he had been afraid of once again activating the curse between them. But in spite of John's reluctance, that first kiss had been tender and sweet and every bit as passionate.

He then thought about their first kiss after Sherlock had returned. John had been so hurt and angry and it had taken all Sherlock had to convince him he was still alive. It had been the kiss that had done it. John had come undone in his arms and had sobbed, tears coursing down his cheeks as he kissed Sherlock. It had been weeks before they had made love. Now, now it was as if they had never been apart. They were back to their old rhythms and knowledge of one another.

Sherlock lifted John up and into his arms and wrapped his long arms and legs around the other man, intending to never let go. John laid his head on Sherlock's chest. The two men lay that way for a long time each thinking how lucky they were to have found their other half, the missing part of their soul, the person that made them whole.

John knew that wherever Sherlock went from now on he would follow. Sherlock knew wherever John went he would come after him. They both knew they would go to hell and back for the other.

In fact they had.

The End


End file.
